Branded

Chapter Fifteen The Dark Stallion

IF YOU KILL once, you can maybe explain it as an accident.

A moment of insanity. A moment of weakness. But if you kill twice, then you’ve got a pattern. A precedent. A history. You can’t explain it away as a mistake.

It’s deliberate. Premeditated.

Although nothing about what happened just now was premeditated. I’ve thought about it a lot, yes, but I didn’t pin her to the ground with the explicit intention of doing what I did. And what I did was betray Annie.

I’m the reason she isn’t here anymore, aren’t I?

Because I failed to protect her. I failed to keep her safe.

So I don’t get to do what I did. I don’t get to feel peace.

I don’t get to feel a moment’s relief like I did when I tasted my wife’s snatch.

Not until I avenge Annie. But I can’t even do that right.

Because for some fucked-up reason, I can’t keep away from Peyton.

I dab the knife wound with an alcohol pad as I watch her lying on top of the sleeping bag. She looks exactly the same as she did last night, the answer to all my prayers. An angel with a halo around her head. Except, turns out, this little angel is also a hellcat.

With blood and dirt streaking her dress and her body; her fair skin tanned from being in the sun all day, and that long blond halo-like hair all tangled up, she looks like a bloodthirsty princess, sleeping peacefully after a long day of causing chaos and mayhem.

And, well, from being eaten the fuck out.

Apparently, my little hellcat of a wife squirts.

Not sure if she noticed that, but she’s gonna wake up with drenched panties again tomorrow. And fucking apparently, I’m hard as fuck again.

I clench my teeth and focus on dressing my wound.

Not that it helps all that much, because every little sting and the resulting grit of my teeth remind me that she did this to me.

That she stabbed me and I ate her out. By the time I finish, I’m angry and agitated all over again, and itching to do what I’ve been wanting to do since I saw her signature on the document.

I get my cell out of my pocket and turn it on.

I’ve never really been a fan of cell phones, not even before I got put away.

Always thought they made this crowded world a little more crowded.

And now that I’m out, I fucking detest the thought of being surrounded by more people than I already have to be.

Even if figuratively. Which is why I like the woods.

Bad reception and no one to bother for miles on end.

Nowhere for the Turner girl to run.

Engaging the phone, I put it to my ear.

Rad picks up on the third ring. “Hey.”

His voice, as always, sounds unused. Full of thick gravel and sand.

“What does Peyton look like?” I ask without preamble.

There’s a moment of silence on the other end. Not unusual; sometimes Rad needs time to get his words together. We’re all used to being patient with him. This silence, though, feels different. Thicker, fraught with things.

Even though I’m impatient as hell for his answer, I don’t blame him for taking his time.

I probably threw this at him out of nowhere.

Just like when, months ago, I called him and asked him to look into the Turner girl.

He was surprised back then too. But like a loyal brother, even though he’s just my cousin, he didn’t ask questions.

Just went about gathering all the information he could for me.

And what a revelation that information turned out to be.

“You don’t know what your wife looks like?” Rad says finally, breaking into my thoughts.

“Look, I know you’re pissed,” I tell him.

“You know that, do ya.”

“I didn’t tell you that this was what I was plannin’ on.”

“No, you didn’t.”

“But just answer the question.”

“Thought we covered this,” he retorts.

We did. That was the very first question I asked him when I told him to look into her. Not that it would’ve mattered, what she looked like. But for reasons unknown, I wanted to know the moment I got my hands on her letter.

Blond hair, blue eyes, fair skin.

That’s what he told me, and again, for reasons unknown, every time I sat down to read her words, that’s what I pictured. Every time I sat down to write a letter back, I pictured a generic shade of blond and an average pair of blue-colored eyes.

I was wrong.

Her eyes aren’t average blue; they’re the blue the sky gets just after the rain, crisp and crystal.

Her hair isn’t the generic blond; it’s the kind of blond that’s a mix of sunflower and gold.

And her skin is like the cream you put in your coffee when you wake up the first thing in the morning.

It’s also soft and pink like the roses. She’s a goddamn Montana morning with clear skies and the golden sun and roses swaying in the breeze.

Oh, and along with the goddamn buttercups.

“Just answer the fuckin’ question,” I growl.

“Blond hair, blue eyes,” he finally indulges me.

I’m not sure what makes me go there, but I ask, “And her best friend?”

“What about”—he pauses for a fraction of a second; the length of time is negligible, and to someone unpracticed, it wouldn’t seem like a pause at all—“her best friend?”

“What does she look like?”

“Why?”

“Look, Rad, I’m sorry, yeah?” I sigh. “I’m really fuckin’ sorry I didn’t tell you what I was planning, but what the fuck did you expect when you read the Turner will?”

He scoffs. “Yeah, shoulda seen that comin’. You marryin’ into the family that killed your girl.”

I clench my teeth as a piercing pain flashes through my body. As I feel my insides splitting apart.

I know Annie’s dead. I know she died eight years ago, the same night I went to kill her murderer but didn’t succeed. I know all that. I just don’t like hearing it. I don’t like hearing she’s gone.

Forever.

I also know it probably wouldn’t make sense to anyone else, what I’ve done when it comes to the Turner girl.

But it makes perfect sense to me. There’s a will, old and ironclad, that was made by one of the original Turners who first settled in Montana.

It states that the heir to the Turner ranching business shall always be the oldest-born Turner son; in this case, Brecken.

Moreover, the land on which the business sits is to be divided equally among all Turner children when they turn eighteen.

When the daughter marries, however, the power of attorney of the land will go to her husband.

Meaning, the land might be hers, but the husband is the one who controls it.

And that’s what I want.

I want the control of the Turner land. Because the one who has the land, has all the power. Because eight years ago, the Turners started a chain of events that led to Annie’s death and changed the course of my life, so now I’m going to change everything for them.

“But even knowin’ you,” he goes on, “and… how fuckin’ reckless you are, I couldn’t… have imagined you d-doin’ something this… fucked.”

This shows how agitated he is by what I’ve done, because usually he’s able to mask his struggles with his speech unless he’s upset. Something like regret leeches into my veins, but I push it back. I have to. I have no choice.

“So no, I’m not gonna… give you any more information,” he finishes on a biting tone.

My nostrils flare with a breath, and even though I don’t want to, I do it. “Listen to me, this is important, okay? I need to know. Trust me when I say—”

“Not gonna trust you with her.”

That feels like a kick to the gut. Rad’s always been my only confidant, so when her letter fell into my lap, he was the first person I called. Back then I didn’t know what I wanted to do, but then he found the will and my plan became clear.

First, I had to keep her safe. And away from any other men who might become a problem later on.

That included motherfuckers both on the inside—fuck yeah, I told every asshole to stay away from her letters and promised retribution if they even thought about writing back to her—and on the outside.

Which means I did have a hand in making her math professor disappear.

Had a couple of cops put the fear of God in him and tell him it’d be in his best interest if he took a job somewhere else.

And then I had to make sure I did everything I could to keep her writing to me every week so I could do what I did.

So I understand where he’s coming from, but it still doesn’t feel right. Until I realize he’s not talking about her. The Turner girl, or at least who I thought was the Turner girl, my wife.

He’s talking about her best friend.

And with that, another realization dawns and I straighten up. “Tell me you don’t have feelings for the friend.”

There’s silence on the other end. As unusual as the one before because I think he knows I’ve figured it out. “Are you fuckin’ kidding me? Tell me you don’t.”

“Gonna hang up now,” he growls.

“The fuck you are,” I bite out. “You want her. You want the best friend.”

How the fuck did that happen, though?

All I told him was to look into the Turner girl.

Where she lived; who she hung out with; what she did; if she had someone, a boy, because if she did, I’d have to get that taken care of.

He told me she had a best friend. That they were more than best friends; they were like sisters.

Even though they were different from each other, they still managed to do things together.

They lived together. They went to classes together.

From what I remember, very early on, Rad also told me about seeing guys going in and out of their apartment, which made me lose my shit, even though I knew they probably were connected to her best friend and not her.

Because I knew she was inexperienced with guys; I had her letters to prove it.

But I never involved Rad more than asking him to get me information.

So again, how the fuck did this happen?

“I’m done,” he growls again.

“So, what, I tell you to look into the Turner girl and you end up fallin’ for the best friend?”

“Least I didn’t kidnap a girl… and stab a cop to marry her.”

“Jesus Christ.” I scrub a hand down my face. “This is fucked.”

“You’re tellin’ me.”

“I thought she had a boyfriend.”

“Took care of him.”

“Took care of him how?”

“You don’t need to know that.”

“He breathin’?”

“So far.”

“Fuck.” Sighing, I tunnel my fingers through my hair. “Okay, look, just… I need to tell you something, yeah? But I can’t. Not yet. Not until I know for sure. So just… don’t do anything else that’s fucked. Not until I get back to the ranch.”

Because I don’t think the girl he’s fallen for is the best friend at all. I think Peyton Turner’s best friend is sleeping right in front of me.